It was just after 6:15 p.m. on Wednesday, June 26. My husband and I were building a bookshelf, of all things, in the basement. It was a beautiful day on Shadybrook Drive, our quaint street just off 144th Avenue — toeing the border where Holland Township meets Park.
Our four-year-old had just started playing Freddi Fish, a throwback, and we were nailing in the paper-thin backing all cheap furniture has, when the rumble started. It wasn't loud, necessarily, but it seemed to go on forever. My husband and I exchanged a look. The room went black.
"What happened, mommy, daddy?" Our son was less than thrilled. He'd been separated from his fishy friend.
"I think that was thunder, buddy."
"No," I said, catching the glare of the sun on the stairwell. "Something bad happened."
We went upstairs, hearts racing like they always do before you know what's really wrong. I saw a man emerge from a house across the street. I stepped onto the back porch. "Your power out, too?" I called.
He pointed to my front yard.
My first thought was a car crash. I'd left my phone in the basement, but the man already had his to his ear. Uh oh.
My husband ran out through the garage. I looked out the front window. I heard him swear profusely just as I saw it. An enormous chunk of tree, my favorite tree, cracked and broken and fallen against the power line. We live on the corner lot; the wires strung across the street entrance.
We called 911 and Holland BPW. Then we prepared to take in the rest of the damage.
To our relief, there was none. Our car (parked in the driveway) was spared. None of the ensuing leafy nightmare hit our house. Nobody had been turning onto the street. (Thank God.) I called my father, also our insurance agent, and was assured the power company would chop it down. We'd have some bonus firewood, he warned.
And that was it. There was nothing left to do but stand and wait.
But we weren't waiting long, because the most remarkable thing happened. As it turns out, when there's no power and a big hulking thing in the middle of the road, neighbors start talking.
Our neighbors across the street have a new puppy. They'd just finished cooking when our mishap interrupted their dinner. They snapped a few photos, brought out lawn chairs. Our kids played, we learned each other's names.
The couple behind us, whom we've spoken to the most since moving here nearly four years ago, popped over to check on us. Unfortunately, their dinner wasn't quite done. (Sorry again, guys.) They told us how, two owners ago, the first part of that three-trunked tree had knocked down the same power line. One to go, I thought.
We met yet another couple from five or six houses down, spoke to the neighbors directly across the street, chatted with a handful of people forced to walk their dogs along a new route. I was tempted to go to the grocery store, pick up a pack of burgers, and fire up the grill. There were bubbles and chalk. We kicked around a soccer ball.
Four years we've lived on this street. Four years we've kept largely to ourselves, speaking when spoken to, waving to the occasional passing car. One neighborhood crisis and all that changed. It was suddenly 50 years ago, when the best way to spread the news was standing in your front yard and talking about it.
All those times I'd considered hosting a Shadybrook barbeque, I'd relented — fearful of the inevitable embarrassment when no one came. Maybe it was time to reconsider, I thought on Wednesday. Maybe we should all pretend there's a fallen tree once in a while. My husband and I laughed as one neighbor approached: "So it's your tree causing all the trouble, eh?"
"Well, really, it's in the easement," my husband joked.
"A technicality," I said.
"What happened last night?" my son kept asking, sounding vaguely hungover.
We shook hands all around, including the little one. They asked to take a photo. My husband threatened to charge them $5. How beautiful, I thought. That we can still do this.
And then the power came back on.
— Cassandra Lybrink is a Holland resident and local editor of The Sentinel.
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